Pain
by TheShadowArchitect
Summary: Ultimately, there came a point where he couldn't sit still any longer. Dark, whumpy one-shot. (Part of the "Cut Again" series previously posted to AO3 and tumblr)


Ultimately, there came a point where he couldn't sit still any longer.

It was later in the evening in his apartment. Cool night air was finally coming in the open window, and along with it sounds of people shouting and pulsing club music and police sirens. A mix of familiarity, of pain and of lust and longing, the smells of stale fryer grease and garbage and cheap alcohol and urine. What he'd come to know as night in the summer of his city. And his own heartbeat, his own sweat and blood was fading from that cacophony.

He was halfway to the closet before he thought of how stupid it was, even the few steps had been a slow, laborious feat of will. He could feel where his body was cut, where it was torn and had been sewn roughly back together while he'd gritted his teeth against the pain. He could feel the broken segments of his ribs, still swollen and hot, barely fusing themselves back to one another. Could feel his head pounding and his left ankle almost giving way under even these first few steps.

But a block away someone was screaming for her wallet. A quarter mile in the other direction, someone for his life. A convenience store's alarm was wailing on tenth street, and a pack of teenagers had broken the front window of a basement apartment on second and main- the tinkling of shattering glass still hanging in the air as a child inside began bawling. Those and a thousand others. He'd gotten tired of listening to it.

He had a responsibility to Hell's Kitchen. Pain was physical, a fact of life. His punishment for not moving fast enough, not training hard enough. He'd had enough rest to be functional again. Any pain that came would only serve as further punishment. He could rest again when Hell's Kitchen did.

HIs body was singing, as he merged with the falling night. Down at ground level, heat rose from the sidewalk, bringing with it the smells of people, their cologne, body odor, what they'd eaten for lunch. He closed his eyes symbolically beneath the mask, focusing, wading through the world of fire three miles in every direction. Identifying eighteen- no, nineteen- indications of distress and sorting them by proximity and his ability to respond.

In an alley a block and a half from him, behind an ancient dumpster. A drug deal had gone a little further south than usual. He was moving in an instant, staying close to the wall. The cool, light dampness in the air told him the sun had set. He made his way quickly, silently, refusing to allow the pain any hold on his movements. It was only when he stopped, crouching in a back doorway, his ankle absolutely screaming, that he considered slowing down.

It was too late now, though, to make that decision. He'd committed to this poor wreck of a human being getting the shit kicked out of him over a drain grate on the alley floor.

"Leave, now." He said, slowly and evenly. HIs body was perfectly balanced, perfectly poised to endure his current injuries. He knew he cut a menacing figure, that by now these men would know of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, would know he wasn't one they wanted to tangle with. To be completely honest, it didn't matter a whole lot to him. There would be pain tonight regardless of whether these men decided to turn their fists and feet on him instead. Hopefully if that happened the man would have the good sense to run.

One of the attacker's feet slid a few inches on the pavement, turning toward Matt. The other two continued with their beating. He began to laugh. "Hey, check this guy out." The muffled thuds of feet hitting flesh ceased, similar scratching on the concrete told Matt he had their attention now. The man on the floor moaned pitifully.

"Who you, man?" Footsteps towards him. The attacker on the left came within inches of Matt's face. He had neither shaved nor brushed his teeth in a little over a week. Matt set his jaw.

"Leave, now." Matt repeated, low and angry. Left Attacker was an inch and a half taller than he was an a good thirty pounds heavier. Matt assumed he thought he was being sneaky, but Matt caught the movement of his balled fist a second before it was swinging towards his face. He stepped back easily, all pain forgotten in the sudden release of adrenaline. The two others moved forward as Matt dodged the blow. A second blow, this time from the man on the right he blocked, throwing himself out of the way. He ended up by Left and managed to knee him in the groin before Center landed the first real punch of the fight.

It was a jab, nothing more, but it was to Matt's already damaged ribs. He felt the bone slip violently, grating against the raw, healing fracture. Center got three more savage hits in before Matt pulled himself back together. An uppercut threw Center off guard, and Right came to his aid a second too late. He got Matt's elbow to the side of his jaw and staggered away momentarily. "Fuck, man."

But Left had waddled back over to the fight and Matt, distracted, turned a second too late, feeling his shoulders forced down into the man's knee. Matt gaped, unable to draw breath. He couldn't sense the attackers anymore, feeling as though his ribcage was splintering under the man's weight.

Screaming. He was screaming now, joining the other sounds of distress in the city. He'd failed. He spat blood, feeling it run down the side of his face as he felt his shoulder strike cement. The least pain in his body, and it had probably dislocated. His hands scrabbled uselessly around his torso, trying to find something to guard but it was all too raw to hold or comfort. He shuddered in agony, a wail of torture cut short as he spat vomit across the ground. The smell overwhelmed him but he couldn't move nor block it out. Every cough was unbearable.

But the attackers had left. A few people had taken notice of his screams on the street, but a man being mugged in an alley was hardly novelty in Hell's Kitchen. They knew the price of getting involved, and it wasn't worth it.

Finally, slowly, he quieted. He lay still against the cooling cement. The man on the grate was unmoving, silent, no longer moaning. Matt couldn't hear a heart beat. Failed.

His senses broadened and flattened across the city. Hell's Kitchen was crying, in pain, in need of someone, anyone who wasn't it's Devil.

A tear hit the pavement that had nothing to do with his ribs.


End file.
